


The Sinners' Crawl

by lightsgodown



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 12:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsgodown/pseuds/lightsgodown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is the Prince of Hell, second in line to rule after his father, Crowley. Hell is all he knows - the Pit, the Rack, the Staircase, and the endless souls. They're his whole world. </p><p>He's bored of it all. </p><p>When Dean Winchester's soul is ripped from his body after making a deal to save his brother, word spreads quickly of Alastair's new star torturer. It doesn't take long for Castiel to get curious, and when he does, he discovers the first real enigma he's ever seen: a soul caught tightly in the grips of evil that finds a way to stay pure, that still remembers home. </p><p>So he hatches a plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was formerly called _Hellboys_ , but I changed the title because that one sucked. I'm working out the kinks as I write this - sorry for any confusion.  
> (Also sometimes I apparently take several months to update. I am a terrible writer in that respect; for that, I apologize. If you stick around to keep reading, thank you very much.)

 

Dean Winchester had been in the Pit for thirty years when he finally cracked. His name grew louder in the demon's whispers, eventually finding its way into Castiel's ear.

_He's ruthless_ , they said. _He learns fast and he never stops._

_Dean Winchester is a monster._

Eventually Castiel got curious. It was a rare thing for a soul to become so well known in such a short period of time. To a seventeen thousand year old demon, thirty years was nothing.

To Crowley, who was older than Castiel could even remember anymore, Dean Winchester was less than nothing. A speck of lint on his flawless black suit.

But Castiel was young, and Dean's name grew louder and louder in the Pit until he couldn't stand the temptation anymore. He had to go see who this monster was.

_Had to_.

So he winged his way down the Pit, down, down, down until he arrived at Alastair's torture chambers. Screaming, crying, moaning, wet gurgling, pleading, sobbing - the noises of Hell were everywhere, all around him, almost suffocating Castiel. He reached a particularly horrible-looking door at the end of a hallway. It was iron cast and rusting, covered in dried blood even on the outside, with thin silver chains criss-crossing up and down. A piteous cry echoed dully from the other side, followed by a truly evil chuckle.

A thrill ran through Castiel's spine.

He shoved the door firmly and it gave under his fingertips, opening inward to reveal a standard silver table with a soul so young it still looked human (a little boy, probably no older than ten) strapped down by tight leather strips. Blood ran down the crown of his head into his eyes, and his body was so maimed it almost looked more like a raw steak than an actual human figure.

And above him.

Above him stood Dean Winchester. Castiel didn't know how he knew, but as the young demon turned to the door and lashed his forked tongue out at him, Castiel knew.

His wings were new, a soft, leathery black that all young demons first had. His face was beginning to morph into that of a dragon's and he already had a wickedly strong-looking tail curling around one leg. His eyes though - those were still human, and startlingly green.

Castiel froze and stared for a long moment. Dean seemed confused for a second before his face hardened and he took a menacing step forward.

"I'm busy, hellboy," he snarled, waving a bloody knife vaguely at the crying boy behind him.

Castiel's eyes flickered to the tortured soul for a heartbeat before snapping back to focus on Dean. He stepped forward coldly, refusing to allow this infant to frighten him. With absolute control he reached forward and gripped a fistful of Dean's left wing, pulling him close and staring starkly into those tremendous eyes.

"That's no way to speak to the Prince of Hell, Dean," he spat. Dean winced and backed away respectfully when Castiel let go.

For a long three seconds neither of them said anything. The only sound came from the boy on the table, sniffling wretchedly. Dean broke the silence first.

"Prince Castiel. What -" he cleared his throat and rustled his wings a little. "What can I do for you?"

Castiel wandered a little closer to the table and bent low over the boy's abdomen. It was carved into oblivion, skillfully done so his stomach overflowed with blood but did not spill out. He dug his fingers curiously into  the ribbons of flesh. The boy cried out and Castiel smirked.            

He straightened and sucked one finger curiously into his mouth, tasting the coppery tang of blood. "Your name has traveled quickly, did you know?"

Dean swallowed, watching Castiel inspect his work carefully. "I did not."

Castiel nodded, touching the boy's forehead with two fingers and restoring his body. "Alastair will see you in a minute," he said with a smile. "Dean, with me please."

He led the young demon out of his torture chamber and up, up, up the stairs, probably farther up than Dean had been since he had gotten off the rack in the first place. Dean followed silently, his tail slithering over the damp stone floors.

When they reached the top of the staircase, he stopped and turned on one heel to face Dean, a step below him.

Dean cracked one clawed finger. "Have I -"

Castiel raised one finger to cut him off. "It's no small thing, for me to seek after a torturer." Dean shook his head silently. "However, as I said, your name has become something of renown."

Castiel met Dean's curiously human eyes. They were so green. Something lurched in his gut.

Crowley wouldn't like this. In fact, he'd be furious if he found out. Which he certainly would - nothing Castiel did went unnoticed by his father. He couldn't find it much in him to care though.

"I am interested in tutoring you privately," he said after some consideration. He cocked his head and inspected Dean again for a beat. "You will report to my personal quarters tomorrow."

Dean nodded, looking a little thunderstruck.

Castiel's face twisted up into a smile as a woman screamed somewhere far below them. "Excellent. I'll be seeing you, Dean Winchester." 

* * *

 

The stairs in Hell were brutal. Most people on Earth, Castiel had heard, believed that Hell was nothing but a bottomless pit of darkness and fire. In some ways, he supposed, that was true, but in actuality such a description only just scratched the surface.  There was a Pit, that part was accurate. But it wasn’t bottomless, and it certainly isn’t all there is to it.

In reality, Hell is like a cave so deep and so steeply sided that it was very nearly impossible to climb out once you fell in. Which, Castiel supposed, was Crowley’s point when he designed it.

There was one gateway out, at the very top, so high up it was impossible to see unless you were in Crowley’s personal headquarters. It was heavily guarded by his hellhounds at all times, and the only ones who passed through were members of Crowley’s army, off to do whatever work they’d been commanded with.

After Crowley’s chambers, there were Castiel’s, and then the Knights of Hell and the Horsemen’s offices. After that, the punishingly steep staircase that provided the only route between those highest places ended, and Hell dropped off into the Pit, where the majority of Hell’s residents spent eternity.  The Pit was where all of Alastair’s torture chambers were, as well as those of his students. Not to mention the Rack. It was dank, thick with the smell of blood and the sound of tortured bodies, and utterly devoid of light except for the peat fires that burned relentlessly all around the edges.

It wasn’t bottomless though, like so many of Earth’s legends said. No, there was something sinister below the Pit, the root of all Hell’s evils.

Lucifer’s cage, buried beneath more than six thousand seals, boiled and flamed at the very deepest depths of Hell.

From Castiel’s vantage point at the bottom of the Staircase, Lucifer’s cage was imperceptible to his eyes. But every soul and demon could feel Satan’s presence, hot and angry at all times. Castiel knew from experience that the cage was white-hot and prone to lightning storms. It was never motionless, either – constantly pitching back and forth more violently than a ship in the wildest of hurricanes. There were times, when Castiel had been younger, when he had genuinely believed that one day Lucifer would become too much for his cage and he would break free of his own brute force. So far, that had not been the case.

Castiel paused on the bottom stair and rested his pitch-black wings, stretching the still flight feathers out and rolling his shoulders back to relieve the tension of returning from so far down.  He turned back to the Pit with his hands clasped behind his back, a position Crowley had taught him to assume from a young age, and watched.

The Pit frothed back and forth like upset waves. All the movement was created by souls. Millions upon billions of them, tortured, maimed, and desperate, jockeying violently to scramble over one another, reach for the staircase, climb up and out. The color was almost dizzying to watch: reds and blues and yellows and neon purples, white and black and green, all mixing together and blurring around the edges before re-solidifying into a solid form and breaking into a thousand pieces so quickly he couldn’t keep up.

Every soul has a color, inherent to the qualities it possessed as a human being. Most people assume Hell is black, colorless, and bleak. Quite the opposite is true – it’s so vibrant and full of color that it’s a beautiful chaos.

Castiel stood silently and watched for a while, smirking when some tormented thing recognized him and screamed out his name. Only Crowley was in charge of deciding whom to drag up, they should know that.

A pillar of black smoke erupted from high above Castiel’s head. The teeming masses roared and lurched even more violently than before as Crowley himself took form on Castiel’s left side, standing one stair above him and mirroring his son’s posture. “Hello, Father,” Castiel said absently, staring at a speck of pale green that zipped around frantically in the crowd.

“Castiel,” Crowley’s thick accent rumbled behind him. “What are you doing down here?”

Castiel shrugged. “I got bored upstairs. I went down to visit the Chambers.”

Crowley stiffened a little. “Alastair?”

“No. One of his students. A new one, apparently quite the natural. I observed some of his handiwork.” Castiel was careful not to mention the part about inviting Dean upstairs. That was definitely off-limits in Crowley’s mind.

A heavy hand landed on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel monitored his breaths and didn’t turn around. “Castiel,” Crowley said in a low, gravelly voice. “That was foolish. He could have grabbed you – held you prisoner for his own benefit.”

Castiel shuffled away from Crowley ever so slightly. His hand fell off shoulder and he readjusted his left wing. “I don’t think so. He seems… Intent. On his work.” He stared determinedly down into the Pit, refusing to allow the quiver of anxiety building in his throat escape into his voice. The souls were rioting now in the presence of the King of Hell. Screams rose and mixed together into a cacophony of suffering.

“Tread carefully around Alastair’s boys, my son,” Crowley said eventually. “They are out for none but themselves.”

Castiel snorted and began climbing the stairs. “Aren’t we all?”

His father stayed where he was, observing the Pit with a small, satisfied smile.

* * *

 

Somewhere far below, far enough that the Staircase and the panicked twist of souls that cried out just below it were invisible to his eyes, Dean Winchester sat back on his haunches and wiped his sweaty brow. A couple of lesser demons carried the last soul of the day out by the hands and feet. It was a mangled corpse of a thing after Dean was through with it, deliciously torn apart. But still alive enough to weep, still human enough to cry for its sister.

Dean smiled at it as they demons dragged it past him, flashing his blade menacingly at it. “See you around, sweetheart.”

The fear in its eyes was his reward. His door shut with a metallic _thud_ behind the demons and he set about putting his instruments away.

“You did well today, my boy,” a slithery, nasal voice said behind him. Alastair had materialized, just as he always did at the end of the day. “I must say, you are one of the fastest learners I’ve ever had. And I’ve been around a long, long time.”

Dean nodded curtly without turning around to face the older demon. Alastair moved on silent feet until he was standing on Dean’s left side, mere inches behind him. He placed one hand on Dean’s shoulder, his grip painfully tight. “I have something new for you to try tomorrow,” he whispered straight into Dean’s ear.

Dean slipped out of his grasp and walked to the silver table, pretending to check the bindings on the leather straps. Something in Dean’s chest was screaming to keep Castiel’s visit private, but it would be difficult to deny Alastair. He shuddered to think what might happen if he tried.

Alastair was too smart to be fooled by Dean’s act. “Oh,” he purred, pressing both hands flat on the table and leaning forward until Dean could smell his breath, putrid and stinking. “Or does Princess Dean have a date tomorrow?”

Dean swallowed and looked away. “I. It’s just.” He hesitated for a split second and then pressed on, determined not to let Alastair get the better of him. “The Prince came today.”

Alastair looked a little taken aback. “Castiel?” Dean nodded. “What did he want with you?”

Dean shifted his weight, rustled his wings a little. “Wanted to… ah… congratulate me.”

Alastair raised one hand and stroked his chin thoughtfully for a long moment. His steely eyes were thoughtful, impossible to read, until they lit up with what Dean supposed was supposed to be a smile, except it looked more like a rabid animal baring its teeth.

“Deanie, Deanie, Deanie,” he said with a chuckle. “You really are the best student I’ve ever taught.”


	2. Chapter 2

Demons don’t sleep, at least not in the Pit. The way Dean saw it Hell was a simple battlefield. Rule number one: You fall asleep, you die. Except of course, you don’t _really_ die, because after all, you’re already dead.

Maybe somewhere high up on the food chain it would be safe to sleep. Someone like Castiel, or Crowley could probably rest easy thanks to the hellhounds. Far below them, Dean spent his nights pacing relentlessly, up and down his little cell, wearing loops and circles and figure eights into the floors.

There isn’t exactly a sunrise in Hell, either. Dean wasn’t exactly sure what he’d thought would happen (he’d spent most of his last year on Earth very solidly _not thinking about this_ ), but it certainly wasn’t this. There was no sun in Hell, and so there were no nights or days, and yet there was still a period of roughly seven hours where Hell was… quiet.

It was during these hours that Dean paced in his torture chamber, readjusting his grip on the simple silver blade he never let go of. During this “night” phase, demons turned from their still-human charges and began attacking one another. The goal, he assumed, was nothing but the simple rush ripping something apart brought. The bloodlust was palpable, consuming, fiery.

Most of the time, Dean didn’t bother leaving his chamber. Killing demons didn’t quite give him the same satisfaction. Maybe it was because he’d spent so much time topside tracking the things that he’d lost his taste for it when he got here.

At least, that’s what he told himself. He studiously ignored the timid little voice in the back of his head that whispered things like _Maybe it’s because you’ve developed a taste for a new prey, Dean_ and _Human souls scream louder_.

Dean walked a little faster, hunched his shoulders forward a little more. _Twenty four thousand, nine hundred, sixty-four. Twenty four thousand, nine hundred, sixty-five, twenty four thousand, nine hundred, sixty-six,_ he counted stiffly, refusing to allow his thoughts to stray to anything other than the thick, block-like numbers he played on a loop in his mind, counting the seconds. Seven hours. Twenty five thousand, two hundred seconds to survive, and he was almost there.  Two hundred and thirty-four more to go and the danger would be lifted – he could get another miserable bitch on his table and it would all be okay.

 _No._ Dean grabbed his left bicep and squeezed until his fingers cried out for oxygen. He grimaced and released it, forcing his mind back to the numbers. One foot in front of the other, numbers ticking down steadily. Blade in sweaty hand, a drop of moisture running down his temple and getting caught behind his ear. The sounds of demons turning on each other, on the shrieks and wails and occasional dark laugh that once sent shivers down Dean’s spine but now only made his ears perk up interestedly rose and fell from the other side of his door. 

Twenty five thousand, two hundred couldn’t come fast enough.

 

* * *

 

Castiel didn’t sleep most nights, though he had a magnificent bedchamber in his personal quarters. He could, if he ever wanted to. He knew Crowley slept for at least seven hours every day. But truth be told, sleep had not appealed to Castiel for at least two thousand years. Instead, Castiel preferred filling those hours, the rare moments free from the constant supervision of the King of Hell, to do what he pleased.

Sometimes he snuck into the Knight’s library, just to see what he could find. The Knights were responsible for collecting every piece of information possible on every soul down in the Pit, all of which was kept in a cavernous library, the doors of which stood just below the Gate. If he could, Castiel would sneak in during the night hours and wander the shelves, pulling files out at random and reading about the souls. That’s what he was doing tonight.

The floors of the Library were polished marble, with stone pillars holding the ceiling up. According to Crowley, it was all very “Sistine Chapel,” but Castiel could do nothing but take his word for it, having never been on Earth to see it himself. The ceiling was painted with scenes from the Bible, though he imagined these particular stories weren’t in the modern-day version. Front and center (or, rather, _up_ and center) was a violent, bloody image of Lucifer slaying angels, pre-Hell. All around it were similar paintings, all blood and gore and flame.

Castiel’s footsteps made no noise on the smooth stone as he meandered among the aisles, stopping whenever a name caught his fancy and inspecting that person’s life. A Kamikaze pilot during World War II, a suicide bomber in London, a serial killer, a man who cheated on his wife with six other women, a writer accused of pedophilia while “researching” a novel, a woman who drowned her own child. All of them burned while Castiel flicked through their files, reading about their lives on Earth and putting them back as he pleased.

Eventually, with an hour left before Crowley would be awake and come looking for him, Castiel found himself in the English W’s section, flicking through the names. Williamson, Willis, Willoughby, Wilmer, Wilms, Wilson.

Winchester.

Castiel paused, touched the folder hesitantly. It was thick, full of all the Winchesters who had ever lived and died and burned in the Pit, but Dean’s name would be in there nonetheless.

Sure enough, the newest file was stamped in large, black letters as “Dean Winchester” and in smaller type just below, “Born January 24, 1979. Died May 2, 2008.” Castiel lifted the file from its place slowly. It was surprisingly thick – Dean Winchester had done much in his short lifetime.

A soft _thump_ echoed from somewhere far away from Castiel. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he tensed. If one of the Knights found him in here… He shuddered to think what would happen if Abaddon reported him to his father again.

A long beat passed, during which Castiel did not even dare to breathe. He moved swiftly, stuffing the Winchester file back in its place and lifting himself into the air, straining his wings toward the decorated ceiling and flitting toward the entrance.

Samhain bent over the Library’s front desk, digging around in a drawer for something. Castiel hovered a hundred feet above the god of the dead, not daring to attempt to fly low enough to get out the doors. Samhain was worse than Abaddon when it came to getting Castiel in trouble.

Eventually he found whatever he was looking for, straightened up, and left. Castiel waited another ten seconds after he pulled the huge carved door shut and then lowered himself to the ground, landing lightly in his simple leather moccasins. His sneaky shoes, Crowley had once called them after Castiel had been caught playing with a hellhound at the Gate.

 He slipped out of the Library quickly, slipping a file folder into the inside pocket of his tan trench coat surreptitiously as he went.

 

* * *

 

The day passed by tediously. It seemed that no matter where Castiel went, Crowley was there, or Death or _somebody._ Evidently Crowley had decided to be absolutely sure Castiel didn’t make another trip downstairs.

The file sat on his chest for hours, forcing Castiel to button a couple buttons of the trench coat just so it wouldn’t flop around under its weight. He managed to escape after nearly three hours of discussing the finer points of old-fashioned war with War himself, claiming that he felt tired and retreating to his room.

The first thing he did was lock the bolt on his door and press his back to it, sliding down to the floor with a deep sigh. _Father._ This wasn’t the first time he’d been tailed constantly when Crowley was suspicious of him, but it never failed to piss Castiel off.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the locked door and spreading his wings out as far as they would go and straining the muscles until they relaxed. His eyes swept across the room mindlessly. His bedroom was by far his favorite space, except perhaps the library. It had a large four-poster bed that he rarely used for actual sleep but enjoyed all the same because of the deep red curtains that could be pulled closed all around it. The floor, much like the Library’s, was marble, except his was black with silver flecks instead of the off-white color of the Library.  A mural of himself covered the entire east wall, a gift from Crowley on the day of his official coronation as Prince. It was an intimidating painting; his body stood in the exact middle of the wall, wings stretching out and filling the space on either side of him floor-to-ceiling. In one hand he held a flaming sword, raised high above his head. His eyes shone pearly black and furious.

Castiel cocked his head at the painting for a moment, searching for some new detail he was not already familiar with. The mural was strange that way – something new seemed to present itself to him every time he bothered to look closely. He found the change after a minute or so: His left hand, which had been raised above his head to hold the sword in addition to his right yesterday, was now hanging slack. The fingers curled into a tight fist and his index finger pointed straight down.

He turned his head away and slipped one hand inside his pocket, carefully pulling out the file that had been burning a hole in his curiosity all day. Dean would be arriving in his more formal office space in just a few hours, provided he could get past Crowley without being seen. Until then, Castiel had to educate himself on Hell’s newest star.

 

* * *

 

 **Name:** Dean Winchester

 **Birth date:** 24th January, 1979

 **Death date:** 2nd May, 2008 (age 29)

 **Cause of death:** Hellhound

 **Home town:** Lawrence, Kansas, United States of America

 **Occupation:** Hunter of the supernatural 

**Level of interest:** High. Wanted for the murder of countless demons (including Azazel) and other supernatural beings.

 

* * *

 

The first page of every soul’s file was basic information. Castiel skimmed this quickly, only stopping when he reached the bit about hunting the supernatural.

Of course, Crowley had told him stories of hunters when he was a child. Stories meant to scare him, meant to quell any desire in Castiel to visit Earth. But never did he believe they were real. Hunters were supposed to be legends, myths only thought true by the very young or very stupid.

Castiel swallowed and flipped to the next page.

 

* * *

 

 **Family Information:** Subject grew up with his mother, father, and younger brother until the age of four, when Azazel killed Mary Winchester. John Winchester took his sons and fled, training them in the ways of hunting their whole lives.

Subject idolizes his father _(Note: John Winchester came to Perdition 19th July, 2006, after making a deal with Azazel to save Dean’s life. See: “John Eric Winchester”)_ and spent considerable time on Earth blindly following his orders. Subject barely remembers his mother and maintained a highly co-dependent relationship with younger brother Sam Winchester.

**Notes on Subject’s Death:** After his younger brother was stabbed in the back and killed, subject made a deal with a Crossroads Demon (his soul for his brother’s life). Due to the nature of his extremely wanted status, he was not given the normal ten years, receiving only one instead. Subject accepted the deal and sold his soul. Lilith, the First Demon, held his contract. Subject was taken May 2nd, 2008.

 

* * *

 

Castiel leaned back on his heels and blew a thin stream of air from between his lips. A hunter who gave his life for his brother’s. That was very rare indeed. Probably Dean had been intended for Heaven at one point. A little smirk played at Castiel’s lips.

He flipped to the next page of the folder. This was a full-body image of Dean Winchester’s human form. He was tall, well built, with dark blond hair and a fierce look in his eye. Castiel knew what Dean’s eyes looked like already, of course, having been so struck by them yesterday, but there was still that little jolt deep within when he saw them. They were stronger in their human form – they had something when he was alive that Dean no longer possessed.

An amulet hung from his neck, worn above his shirt. Castiel recognized that, too. Dean still had it, meaning he had a _very_ strong emotional attachment to it. Most people come to Hell with nothing, but sometimes a deep emotion, be it love or hate, anger or passion, could allow them to carry some token of that with them to the Pit. Whomever that amulet was attached to in Dean’s mind (Castiel suspected from the file it might have been his brother Sam) had been more important to Dean than anything else in the world he no longer belonged in.

 Dean Winchester was officially an anomaly.

 

* * *

 

“No! No, no, please, no more,” the woman begged, great tears dripping pathetically from her eyes. The pupils were dilated in pain, and she frequently choked on her own bile and blood mid-scream.

Dean slipped around the table and set down the razor blade he had just removed from her upper thighs. The skin was long gone by now; Dean had been shaving away at pure muscle for at least an hour now. Bones were starting to peek through the blood.

It had been Alastair’s surprise, this razor. He came strolling in that morning, followed as always by two demons carrying Dean’s work for the day and waving a little flash of silver around. “Brought you a present, kiddo!” he had said, throwing the blade straight for Dean’s heart.

He caught the blade easily enough. His hunter’s reflexes were still intact, and this had not been the first time Alastair had thrown something at Dean just to watch him fumble to avoid injury. The demons strapped the woman down and shuffled out wordlessly as Dean flipped the blade open.

“Let’s see what you make of this, shall we?” Alastair’s voice was especially snakelike today. Clearly, he was setting Dean up for failure.

Dean shook his wings out a little and smirked. He picked up a little hammer that vaguely reminded him of the old reflex hammers doctors used to use on his knees as a kid and turned back to the girl on the table.

“Had enough, sweetheart?” he whispered, leaning predatorily over her body. She whimpered, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes where she squeezed them shut. He reached over and tapped one of the exposed femur bones with the hammer. Her wail clenched something deep and animalistic inside him – he smiled down at her. “Baby, I’m just starting to have fun,” he murmured, turning around once more to face his table of instruments.

Alastair stood in his doorway, leaning against the frame and practically beaming. “Deanie,” he said, his voice thick and syrupy. “I must say: I’m impressed. Few know what to do with the razor on their first day.”

Dean rolled his shoulders back and tried to ignore the twinge of pleasure the compliment gave him. “You’re not due for another hour.”

Alastair rolled his black eyes. “You may have a talent with that blade of yours, Dean, but you got dropped on the head as a baby one too many times.”

Dean didn’t answer. Confusion swelled, so he shifted his weight and drew his wings in a little tighter.

Alastair walked further into the room and bent over the woman, much like Castiel had yesterday, to inspect Dean’s work. He clucked softly at the minimal damage to her arms and upper chest (Dean had gotten bored and decided halfway through to just skip to the fun stuff), and then hovered over her ruined legs for a long while.

“This is very interesting,” he said eventually, poking one long, thin finger into the shredded muscle. The woman cried out and jerked against her restraints. Alastair looked as though he wanted to make other comments, but a shadow crossed his face. He cleared his throat. “I have been informed,” he said slowly, “that your presence is required. Upstairs.”

 _Shit._ Dean did his best not to react, to keep his face emotionless.  But after thirty years of Alastair studying him, and a few more of being his student, Alastair knew all his tricks.

“Oh,” he said, moving around the table and drawing nearer to Dean. “So you knew about this.”

Dean fiddled with the hammer still in his hands, tapping the knuckle of his thumb lightly. “Told you Castiel came by, remember?”

Alastair turned abruptly to the woman and sank a dagger deep into her right arm, earning a piercing scream. With the noise still reverberating around the room, he faced Dean.

“You had better not keep the Prince waiting, boy.”

Dean left quickly.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean stood at the entrance to Alastair’s own private corner of the Pit, hesitating. He shuffled his heavy black wings uncomfortably, took a few steps sideways. It had been years – God, he’d lost count of how many – since he’d left the torture chambers. Not since he’d gotten off the Rack had he set foot outside Alastair’s domain. He’d never had a reason to, hadn’t even particularly wanted to.

Alastair’s chambers were close to the bottom of the Pit. The entrance was wide, and Dean still had yet to even visit all the individual holding cells, torture chambers, and weaponries the place held due to its sheer size. Not every soul in Hell spent time down here; some went to Alastair’s co-workers, or in particularly hard cases, to Abaddon herself. Some, it was rumored, never left the Rack, which was right below Alastair’s “teaching school”. The Rack was as low as you could go down here before you hit Lucifer’s cage, but no one beside Crowley himself had ever been down there.

Dean rolled his shoulders back, shook out his wings, and took off. He rose slowly, still unsure that his flight feathers wouldn’t give out on him without warning. When hovering for a few moments proved safe enough, he lifted his head and flapped upward.

Above his head were Ellsworth’s offices, where records of demons were kept.  Like all the individual demon’s domains, there was one entrance to the record halls, even though they wrapped entirely around the Pit, which tunneled straight downward toward the Rack. Ellsworth was meticulous, probably the cleanest demon Dean had ever met. He was strict and unforgiving and bore a striking resemblance to Bobby, right down to the ratty old baseball cap and the –

Dean shook himself violently.

Next door to Ellsworth, rumor had it, was the Whore. Of Babylon, apparently, but Dean knew almost nothing about her except that she never left her room. Dean flew above her area quickly, ignoring the chill that swept through his spine as he did so. Lightning crackled somewhere far below this airborne feet, sending a snarl of thunder chasing him upwards from the cage.

Toward the top of the Pit was a large plateau, slick with the blood of souls and demons jockeying their way toward the Great Staircase. There was no way to climb, jump, or fly to the bottom stair – some clever spell work of Crowley’s, probably. The only way to get there was to fight through the swarms of people and hope to the God who rejected you that some high-order demon saw you and picked you up out of the crowd.

Something screamed at him the second he touched down on the plateau and launched itself parallel to the ground at his chest. Dean crashed with a surprised shout and tousled with the thing, struggling to free his hands, wings, feet, something he could use against his attacker. It screamed relentlessly at him, a high-pitched and grating noise meant to keep Dean off his game.

Unfortunately for it, Dean was stronger. He thrashed around, swinging his head out of the way of its uncoordinated and new-looking claws that swiped feebly at his face, and got one arm free. With that, he grabbed a fistful of the infant demon’s flight feathers, which were only just beginning to sprout from its shoulder blades, and ripped them loose. The demon shrieked even louder and rolled away, smearing thick, hot blood across Dean’s chest as it did so. Dean sprang to his feet and jumped on the demon’s ribcage once, twice, three times until it stopped moving and curled up into a pathetic ball.

The demon was swept off the plateau by the roiling masses a second later, left to fall down the Pit until it wound up on the Rack again. Dean turned, saw an opening in the crowds of souls, and dove in headfirst.

Another demon charged him, brandishing a sharpened bone like a spear and aiming for Dean’s face. A stupid mistake, really – Dean simply sidestepped the assault, grabbed the opposite end of the spear, and used the demon’s charging weight to flip it on its back with a satisfyingly loud _crunch_ of bone against rock. The demon’s wail was lost in the roar and Dean stabbed it through the heart with the spear, and then he was gone, running further into the maelstrom and screaming at the top of his lungs.

Dean slashed and tore, ripped, snapped, and stabbed his way through the crowds without ever stopping until he was somewhere in the middle of the throng. The sound of death was everywhere, in a thousand different reiterations, as demons killed mercilessly and without thought. He was in his element here – nothing but act and react as he ducked to avoid an older demon’s outstretched claw, scratch its soft underbelly with the pointed end of his stolen bone, and spun out of the way of its retaliatory bite.

Dean allowed himself a smirk and a flash of waggled fingers as someone else grabbed it from behind. He turned around, toward the Staircase again, and –

 

* * *

  

Castiel hurried down the hallway from his room, sneaking furtive glances around every corner and checking behind his shoulder every few steps. Crowley, he knew, was in some meeting with the Horsemen and Abaddon. If Dean were on the Field, there would be no better time than now to bring him up.

A couple of hellhounds guarded the top of the Staircase as always. One raised its head as Castiel approached, sniffing curiously. Two trips to the Stairs in as many days was an abnormal thing for Castiel, and the dogs knew it. He rubbed two fingers between the giant dog’s ears and murmured to keep it quiet. The dog whined a little, but laid his head down on his front paws again anyway.

He descended the staircase slowly, scanning the crowd for Dean as he went. He paused on the third stair from the bottom, just in time to see –

* * *

 

\- a giant-ass, red-winged demon at least three times Dean’s size hurtled straight at him, arms outstretched. Dean barely had time to lift one hand to cover his face before the thing was on him, throwing him on his back and snapping his head against the rock. A loose bit of stone embedded itself in the back of Dean’s skull with the force of the impact. Dean barely had time to register the white-hot stab of pain that wracked his whole body before the thing was on him again, ripping viciously at this wings.

Dean screamed as the demon shredded a particularly deep, agonizing gash down the very center of his left wing. Blood that felt more like lava rushed from the wound and soaked the ground as the demon continued to tear from the very top of the wing bone to the bottom of the membrane. Dean’s vision blackened around the edges, narrowing until all he could see were the pinpoints of rage that were the demon’s eyes, and a flash of something bright, too bright, behind its head.

 

* * *

 

Castiel lurched forward when the demon attacked Dean. He stumbled down a step and wobbled there for a second, watching with sick fascination. The demon was simply _huge_ , at least double what Dean was in height and weight. It howled at him when he went down and didn’t stop when they landed on the ground in a tangled pile of limbs and wings and hands. It pulled out a knife, still yelling, and even from his altitude Castiel could see the daze in Dean’s eyes. The demon bent forward, plunged the knife deep into Dean’s inky black wing, and _dragged._

Castiel dove off the staircase without another thought.

* * *

 

Dean jolted back to consciousness when something touched a particularly sensitive part of his injured wing, sending a missile of pain searing right through his bones. He let out a hoarse shout of pain, which was answered by an entirely confusing sentiment.

“My apologies.”

Dean twitched and tried to roll away from the unfamiliar voice, but something was holding his wing down. The second bolt of lightning to his nerve endings was enough to stop him, anyway. He peeled his heavy eyelids open, squinting against the light of… wherever he was.

The first thing that came into focus was Prince Castiel. He was bent over Dean’s wing, held down by what appeared to be dusty old books, brushing his fingers over the wound as gently as he could. It hurt like a bitch nonetheless.

He rolled his head to the side to get a look at the wound. It was gruesome – a rage-red slash through feathers and membrane alike. The torturer’s voice in his mind pointed out, very helpfully, that it was actually a rather well-applied wound, given the hectic circumstances of where it had been administered.

The rest of Dean’s brain told that voice to shut the fuck up because it _hurt_.

Castiel was mumbling something under his breath as he ran his fingers over Dean’s wing. It was too low for Dean to make out any actual words, but the blood flow seemed to let up a little with each pass his hand made. A minute or so of this passed, during which time Castiel made no acknowledgment of Dean’s presence. He just stooped over his work and kept mumbling.

The bleeding stopped eventually, but the wound didn’t close up or otherwise heal. Castiel’s forehead scrunched up into a frown line until he seemed to give up. He stood, and it was only then that Dean realized he was lying on a bed, an actual honest-to-God _bed_ with a mattress and pillows and everything.

“Dude,” he breathed, looking around further. Directly overhead was a burgundy canopy, which tumbled down to curtains that clearly could pull all the way around the bed.  The walls were made of a pale blue marble. One was taken up entirely by a set of rich mahogany double-doors, one was blank, a third was hung with battle armor and the fourth…

Almost made Dean shit himself.

It was a painting; obviously of Castiel, but not in any form Dean had ever seen of him before. The Prince he was used to seeing and hearing about was mostly quiet, concentrated, like he was right now as he inspected Dean’s injured wing with a dissatisfied frown. The Castiel in the painting was fierce, and if Dean were being honest with himself, a little terrifying. Huge black wings spread from one corner to the other, the tips of the feathers all on fire. He wore, inexplicably, a simple black suit with the tan trench coat instead of the full armor uniform of the demonic army he was leading. Both hands were raised high above his head, clutching an impressively long sword and preparing to strike something.

None of that was what made the image so intimidating. A lifetime of battle and an eternity of war meant Dean wasn’t scared of much in the way of physical power. What sent a single chill to the base of his spine were Castiel’s _eyes_. They weren’t the solid black of demons, nor were they human-looking.

They were radiant blue fire, like lightning.

“Dean?”

Castiel was staring at him intently. Dean’s eyes snapped to meet his for a second _(How in the hell does a demon get eyes that blue?)_ and then back to his wing. The blood was drying now, puckering the whole thing and generally only making it look worse.

“I cannot mend it all the way for you,” the Prince said slowly, gesturing needlessly at it.

Dean lifted the tip of it gingerly, grimacing when it shrieked in protest. “Shit.”

“Does it hurt?”

Dean snorted. “Oh, no. Why would this hurt?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes a little.  “You’ll want to watch your tone, Dean.” His wings rustled a little, pulling Dean’s attention back to the mural on the wall behind Castiel’s shoulder. The sword held above his head caught his eye. Dean swallowed and ducked his head, contrite.

“You, ah. Wanted to see me?” he said after a moment, still not looking at the prince’s eyes.

Castiel stood up and moved away from Dean’s spread wing. He twisted his hands behind his back, throwing a sideways glance at the ferocious image over his shoulder. “Do you know who I am, Dean Winchester?”

Dean stared for a moment, a little bewildered. “You’re Castiel,” he said eventually when Castiel did nothing but watch him evenly. “Crowley is your father. That makes you Prince.”

A strange look crossed over Castiel’s face at the mention of his father. Dean only saw it for a moment, but it looked like part adoration and part fear. Something else, too, but it was gone before he could place it. All in all, it reminded him of Sam.           

“That is not…” Castiel sighed. “Never mind. Who I am is unimportant for the time being. What matters is who _you_ are.”

Dean blanked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Castiel didn’t answer. He drew a manila folder out from the inner pocket of his trench coat and held it up for Dean to see. DEAN WINCHESTER was stamped in thick letters on the outside. “You,” he said slowly, “are Alastair’s star student.” Dean swallowed through a suddenly tight throat. Castiel didn’t pause, maybe didn’t even see it. “And as I said yesterday, I am interested in tutoring you privately.”

Dean clenched his teeth and struggled to sit up, ignoring his wing when it throbbed. He paused for a minute, breathing heavily when he realized just how badly he was really injured. His whole left side felt like it was on fire. The nerves in his wing were searing with a strangely _human_ pain. He hadn’t hurt like this – not even on the Rack – since he was topside.

Castiel stood still, a few steps away with his hands held tightly at his sides and his head straight. If he’d had a sword, he would have been strikingly similar to the mural behind him, minus the fire eyes. He didn’t say anything while Dean’s head swam, tiny black spots fuzzing out the corners of his whole brain. He lifted his right leg, which felt like someone had pumped his veins full of lead instead of blood, and plopped it firmly on the ground. His left foot came slower, more reluctantly, and even just setting his feet tired Dean enough that he had to pause for a few excruciating moments. He set his jaw again and pulled himself up resolutely, using the bedpost as leverage.

He lasted a grand total of three seconds before his screaming wing forced him to sit back down again, biting his tongue so hard he thought he might actually draw blood.

Castiel watched Dean wrestle with his body in silence. Eventually, Dean gave up and focused on maintaining his sitting position. “Why,” he said through gritted teeth, “would the Prince of Hell give a damn about me?”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, zeroing in on Dean’s wing, which was bleeding again. “You will find it very difficult to return to Alastair,” he said simply.

Dean barked out a laugh. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“It is difficult for you to maintain your manners when you are in pain or angry,” Castiel said casually.

Dean was thrown for a loop. “I – what?”

The prince didn’t answer. He moved silently across the room, to the wall opposite the mural. On it hung a shield, a sword that looked rather like the one his painted likeness hoisted, and various other pieces of armor. Castiel ran two fingers almost lovingly down the sword’s edge. Dean wasn’t sure if it was the strangely red-tinted light that didn’t come from any source he could see in the room, or his injured wing that was slowly dripping blood onto the floor, but he could have sworn the blade glowed a faint red at Castiel’s touch.

“You will have to take care to arrive unscathed next time,” Castiel said without turning around. “It is imperative that you are at full health.”

Prince or not, this guy was seriously starting to get on his nerves. “You still haven’t told me what I’m doing here, other than getting my ass handed to me.” Dean bit off the words like they’d personally offended him.

Castiel whipped around suddenly. “When I want you to know, Dean Winchester, you will know.” He marched forward until he was barely a foot away from Dean. His wings flared out to the very corners of Dean’s peripheral vision, and something rather like electricity crackled between his fingertips. “Until such a time as I see fit, I suggest you show me some respect.”

Silence rang like a gong; bouncing off the marble walls and making Dean feel very, very small. After a moment, Castiel seemed to collect himself, and turning away from Dean once more he opened a wardrobe beside the bed and pulled something out. He stooped over Dean’s wing for a second time, twisting the lid off a jar of what looked like tiny, black seeds. He scooped some of the whatever-it-was onto his fingers and rubbed it – harder than was probably necessary – into the very edges of the cut. Dean cried out once in shock, but snapped his mouth shut before he noise was fully formed.

“This will give you the strength to return to your quarters,” Castiel said flatly, continuing to spread the stuff on Dean’s wing, starting with the edges and moving inward until the whole wound was covered. “When it is healed, you will return to me. Understood?”

Dean flicked the tip of his feathers, sighing in relief when it didn’t hurt as much. It would still hurt like a bitch getting back, but at least he could stand up without blacking out now. He did so and moved stiffly toward the double doors that led – he had no idea where.

“Dean?” Castiel said from where he remained. Dean turned, holding his wing out awkwardly. Castiel’s own wings were curled around protectively his body. “Be wary of your actions.”

He didn’t turn around as Dean left the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting a warning on this chapter for explicit, twisted violence. Think Alastair's star torturer Dean Winchester.  
> What can I say, this is Hell.

Dean didn’t really walk back into Alastair’s chambers so much as he collided with the door head-on and tumbled into the room. He ended up on his back next to the instrument table, swallowing a mixture of blood and bile.

The rock in his head was still lodged there, matting down his hair with blood and making everything fuzzy. His wing hadn’t done well during the flight down – the seeds Castiel had rubbed in done little to stop the pain flying back. It had opened up again, blood pulsing out of the wound onto the already reddened stone floors. Every inch of his body was on fire.

Dean lay there with eyes closed, pushing down the rising gag reflex and steeling himself as best he could against the pain, but the exhaustion rose anyway.

He passed out.

* * *

 

“Ellsworth.”

The demon looked up from his desk with squinted eyes. “Castiel,” he said in his gruff, monotone voice. “Haven’t seen you in quite a while, boy.”

Castiel leaned against the doorframe and grinned. “It’s been too long, Uncle.”

Ellsworth stood up and beckoned Castiel forward. He wasn’t any true relation of Castiel’s, but when Castiel had been younger it was always Ellsworth he had stayed with when Crowley went topside. He moved into the older demon’s study carefully, edging around the precarious stacks of books and filed scattered, as they always were, all over the floor. He remembered all too well the punishment that came when one of Ellsworth’s precious stacks was knocked over. A tiny shudder ran down Castiel’s spine at a memory from his childhood wormed its way to the surface. He forced it down with a hard swallow.

Ellsworth gripped Castiel’s arm in welcome and then sat down behind his massive desk. It was a huge oaken monument, polished in the extreme and carved ornately with images that always seemed to shimmer and dance in the corner of Castiel’s eye.

“What can I do for you, Castiel?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up. The bottoms of his boots were crusted over with a mixture of what looked like dust and dried blood. He wore heavy jeans with holes worn in the knees and a ratty plaid button down open over a white shirt. Ellsworth was in constant need of a shave – his beard was never not scruffy and his wings, currently folded behind him, were shedding.

Castiel sat down in a simple, straight-backed chair across from Ellsworth and fidgeted with the end of the tie Crowley forced him to wear whenever any of the souls in Hell could see him. It was uncomfortable and mostly just choked him. “I was hoping I could borrow a file from you.”

Ellsworth raised one eyebrow. “Got a crush on one of my nasties?”

Castiel laughed and waved a hand. “That’s ridiculous. No, I’m just curious about one of Alastair’s.”

“Alastair’s boys? Best of the worst, those guys.”

Castiel nodded once. “But they all have remarkable skill.”

Ellsworth lowered his feet and leaned forward, knitting his knuckles together on the desktop. “What’s going on in that head of yours, boy?”

Castiel shrugged. “As I said, curiosity.”

“You developing a taste for torture?”

“No.”

“Then why’re you asking about Alastair’s kids?”

Castiel let out a huff. “Dean Winchester. You’ve heard of him.” It wasn’t a question, but Ellsworth nodded anyway. “They say he’s the best Alastair’s had in years. But he’s only been training with Alastair for a few years. I am curious.”

Ellsworth stood up and moved around his desk, trailing his fingers along the wall of filing cabinets behind Castiel. “I’ve heard of this Winchester of yours,” he said casually, pulling a drawer open and flicking through files.

Castiel nodded and stood up. “He’s grown quite famous it seems.”

The older demon barked out a laugh. “Haven’t heard Alastair rave about a guy like that in… ever, come to think of it.” He held out a new-looking file that didn’t have much of anything in it. “Winchester’s still shiny and new, so I’m afraid there’s not a whole lot I can tell you yet.”

Castiel accepted the file and fought the urge to flip it open right there. “Thank you.”

Ellsworth hesitated a moment. “Your father won’t be happy if he finds you snooping around downstairs. You know that.”

Castiel pressed his lips together into a thin line and fought to keep a straight face. “My father cannot blame me for getting bored.”

“Still.”

“I know. Thank you, Ellsworth.”

Ellsworth pulled his cap down low over his eyes and saw Castiel out with a low grunt. “Be careful, boy.”

* * *

 

_“Sic ‘em, boy,” Lilith said, pulling the door open. A gust of wind slammed forward, blowing her hair into her face. A dog growled and barked and then it was on him and it weighed so much he felt a rib snap the second a paw landed on his chest and Lilith was laughing and it filled his ears and the smell of rotten meat was in his nose except he couldn’t breathe –_

_“No!” Sam shouted, still pressed up against the wall and held immobile by Lilith’s demonic mojo. The dog pulled him off the table and then its claws were on him, in him, digging through flesh and muscle and bone. “Stop!”_

_Sam’s voice grew hoarser and higher as he screamed, but it sounded very, very far away to Dean because his whole body was shrieking, screaming, begging for release, please please just make it stop it hurts please –_

_“Stop it!”_

_The dog bit into Dean’s shoulder and flipped him on his back. For one half second it hovered, as if savoring the moment. Lilith’s laugh and Sam’s pleas and the dog’s guttural roar danced around his ears. The smell of rotting meat had been replaced by the coppery scent and taste of blood – his own blood – and everything was hot, too hot, too –_

_The dog dug its claws into Dean’s chest and ripped him open._

Water splashed his face and sizzled, creating burning sores that healed over almost immediately. Dean came back to consciousness with a huge shuddering gasp, sitting straight up where he lie and coughing. “What –“

“Finally,” a snakelike voice said, clearly irritated. “I thought you were going to sleep all day.”

Alastair swam into focus as Dean wiped water out of his eyes. The droplets stung his fingers, making him shake his hands to get it off. “Is this...?”

“Holy water? Yes,” Alastair smirked. “Though clearly it isn’t terribly effective on you yet. Your pretty face is already like new.” It must have been true; the burning pain had already faded away.

“Why?” Dean rolled his left shoulder and tried to move his injured wing, wincing when he was rewarded with a sharp stab of pain. Alastair clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

“Did you really expect me to let you sleep it off? This is Hell, sweetheart. No beauty sleep for my students.”

Dean groaned inwardly. Like he’d intended to drop dead on the floor. Which is where he still was, legs sprawled out awkwardly in front of him. He grabbed the edge of the instrument table and hauled himself up painstakingly. Holy shit, his wing _hurt._ There was no way it was going to heal quickly.

Alastair didn’t fail to notice the strange angle he held the injured wing at. “My, my, Deanie, the Field was unkind to you.” Dean grunted an affirmative.  “You really must be more careful.”

Dean swallowed and slowly turned his back on Alastair. His head was boiling, heart pounding – strange how even dead hearts could seethe with anger. But a reaction was exactly what Alastair wanted. He picked up a small silver knife and twirled it by the tip of the blade on the table’s smooth surface. It spun for a second and clattered down again.

He didn’t hear Alastair move – never did – but suddenly his teacher was there, pressed too close for comfort and hissing in Dean’s ear. “Don’t think for a moment that this gets you out of work today, Winchester. You and I have a deal, remember?”

Dean remembered, all right. He closed his eyes and fought back the memories of all those years on the Rack, of being ripped and poked and shredded every single day until he agreed to pick up the knife himself.

The iron door opened then, bringing two guard demons through with some wretched, rotting soul carried between them. It didn’t even fight like most of them did as the demons dropped it on the table unceremoniously and strapped it down. It just stared at the ceiling with a terrible kind of resolve that made something way deep down in Dean’s chest twinge uncomfortably.

Alastair stepped up to the instrument table and picked up a rusted pair of scissors. He moved smoothly to the table as the guard demons left and slammed the dead bolt behind them. Scissors weren’t Dean’s number one choice of weapon for this kind of thing, but he had never dared question Alastair’s methods.

“This one,” he said, leaning over the soul and breathing in deeply, “is very close to giving up. You can smell it on their skin if you really pay attention.” He waved Dean forward and gestured for him to bend over the soul on his table.

Dean leaned over and put his face close to the soul’s neck. It didn’t respond at all, didn’t struggle or turn away or ever _glare_ at Dean like the others did. It almost scared him, how calm this one seemed. He inhaled, not really sure what he was looking for.

At first, all he could smell was the strange combination of sweat, blood, fear, and what he imagined might have been sunshine (if sunshine even had a smell) that all souls smelled like when they first came to his table. But as he continued to breathe deeply, he started to notice something else there. It was overly sweet, like rotting fruit almost. He looked up at Alastair and raised one eyebrow in silent question.

“Smell that, kiddo? That’s one part despair, one part hopelessness, and one part excitement.” Alastair paused, presumably for his much-loved dramatic effect. “ _That_ is the smell of a soul about to become truly… one of us.”

“One of us,” Dean said flatly.

Alastair nodded. “You think you can say yes and hop of the Rack, just like that? No, for a soul to really start the transition from human to demon, they have to… let go. And that’s what it smells like.”

Dean straightened up and moved back to the instrument table. “That’s why it’s not fighting.”

Alastair chuckled. “It was a she, once. But she doesn’t remember that anymore. Can you, darling?” He ran one finger up her bare ribcage tenderly.

It – she – didn’t respond at all.

Dean cocked his head at the bemusing thing in front of him. “So, what, they lose their sense of touch?”

“No,” Alastair said. “She can still feel everything, but it will be more difficult to finish breaking her.” He walked around the table and back to Dean’s side. “You see, when a soul gives up on its humanity completely, it loses a certain… sensitivity.” The last word was a hiss. “Which makes it harder to fully break it. It is harder, but,” he stepped forward and plunged the scissors deep into her bicep. She convulsed once as blood spurted from her arm. “Not impossible.” He wedged his fingers into the scissors and pried the blades apart, ripping a larger hole into the soul’s flesh. Alastair twisted up and to the side and began slicing the skin apart, creating a surgical cut from the middle of her bicep to the crease of the elbow.

The whole time, the soul – the girl? Dean didn’t quite know anymore – simply stared at him. She didn’t blink, didn’t make a sound, didn’t give any indication that she was the least bit bothered by the maiming of her body. It set Dean’s teeth on edge.

“Clearly, you see our problem,” Alastair said. “We need these souls to give, but the question is always just how to do it.” He yanked the scissors out of the girl’s arm and wiped the bloody blades on his shirt. “Your job today,” he continued, “is to figure out what makes this one tick.”

Alastair tossed the scissors onto the table, where they collided with a box of scalpels and sent them rattling to the ground. He crossed the room in three steps and rapped hard on the door. With a bang and a scrape, the guard demon moved the dead bolt out of the way and pushed the door open for him.

“Don’t fail me, Winchester.”

* * *

 

Someone tapped knuckles against the doorframe of Ellsworth’s office. With a gruff noise and a rolling of his eyes, Ellsworth looked up from the drawer of files he was rearranging. “Telling you what, Castiel, this had better be –“

He stopped. It wasn’t Castiel in the door this time, but Crowley himself. Ellsworth swallowed his tongue.

Crowley cocked his head to one side. “Castiel came by, did he?”

Ellsworth shuffled his feet and put down the file in his hands. “Crowley. What can I do for you?” His fingers twitched uncomfortably, so he stuffed them deep in his pockets.

Crowley adjusted his pristine cufflink and regarded Ellsworth from the corner of his eye. “Can’t a guy come visit an old friend?”

Ellsworth snorted quietly. It was true; they had been friends once. Back when Crowley had been a simple crossroads demon and didn’t have an ego big enough to combat Lucifer’s. Then Castiel had come along and… well, Crowley wasn’t the best parent.

Crowley ignored his silence and helped himself to Ellsworth’s alcohol cabinet. “You really should be drinking better, old buddy,” he said, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and wrinkling his nose at it distastefully. “This is cow piss.”

“Not all of us can go topside whenever we feel like it, y’know,” Ellsworth grumbled. He snatched the whiskey away from Crowley and took a long pull. “What do you want, Crowley?”

Crowley paced the room slowly, pulling open file cabinets at random and flicking through Ellsworth’s things. He didn’t try to stop the King – he knew _exactly_ how well that would go – but his fingers were squeezing the bottle a little too hard.

“I’m checking up on Castiel,” Crowley said finally, turning to face Ellsworth and flipping a particularly fat, old file shut.

Ellsworth shrugged. “You know he doesn’t visit me anymore.” The silent _you won’t let him_ weighed heavy on his tongue.

Crowley lifted one finger. “Ah, but you already told me he was here today. I want to know why.”

Ellsworth took another drink while he cursed his own damn loud mouth. There was no turning Crowley down when it came to Castiel – the man’s grip on his son was tighter than some of the vises Alastair was fond of using on his tougher cases.

“Ellsworth.” Crowley lifted the file and slapped it lightly back onto his palm. The soft _whack_ was too loud in his ears.

Ellsworth turned his back to Crowley and returned the whiskey bottle to its place in the cabinet. “He was looking for a file about a demon. Plain and simple.”

Crowley shifted his weight. “Did my son say what for?”

“Didn’t ask.”

Crowley’s hand was suddenly on Ellsworth’s shoulder and he was spun around to face the King. “Ellsworth,” he warned, giving him a hard, threatening stare.

Ellsworth yanked away from Crowley and stalked behind his desk, just to get some distance between them. “He was askin’ about Dean Winchester.”

“Winchester.” Crowley pondered this. “Winchester. I know that name.”

Ellsworth grunted. “Everybody knows that name. Hunter, remember? Sold his soul to save his brother.”

The light bulb went on behind Crowley’s eyes. “Dean Winchester. One of Alastair’s boys, isn’t he?” Ellsworth jerked his head once. Crowley chuckled softly and dropped the file on his desk. “Be seeing you, Ellsworth.”

* * *

 

Dean stood beside the soul’s head with his arms crossed tight over his chest, pursing his lips at the bloody mess before him. Torture-wise, this was one of his finer works – she was torn apart beyond recognition, teetering on the edge of death that was so tantalizing in Hell, but over which she would never fall.

And yet, she still hadn’t broken open under his ministrations. She alternated between staring straight up at the ceiling and watching him with disinterested eyes while Dean had done everything in his power to make her hurt. All of her finger- and toenails were pried off (after having bamboo shoots shoved underneath them for a good long while), the little bones in her feet and hands were snapped in half – a trick Dean had learned straight from Alastair, broken in such a way that all the jagged ends poked through her skin. The skin covering his ribs was peeled carefully away from the muscles, and he’d spent the last hour carefully carving her ribs with a box cutter. He didn’t write anything that meant much – just random words and symbols he remembered as he worked; he even drew a hanged stick figure somewhere.  It was kind of funny, if he thought about it, that the phrase “feeling it in your bones” could be literal.

He inspected his work carefully, picking up tools at random to add pressure here, remove more skin there, scrape away at a forming scab somewhere else. The soul was really more like a bloody slab of meat on a butcher’s table than a semblance of a human body. But she didn’t make a sound.

It was infuriating.

“Okay sweetheart,” he said finally, throwing a thumbscrew on the table in exasperation. He rubbed his eyes, with bloody hands and let out a groan. “I get it. You’re tough.” He pulled a rolling stool up and sat down close to her face, which remained mostly untouched except for bloody fingerprints from when Dean had grabbed her face to force her to look at him. She rolled her head to the side and stared blankly at him.

Really, it was just creepy how totally aloof she was. It freaked Dean out a little.

He stared at her for a long time, just watching her eyes. Her pupils were dilated so wide that he could barely see the hint of a once-blue iris. His own reflection stared back at him in the dark pits, weirdly magnified and distorted so he only barely recognized his own face.

Dean chuckled. “You actually remind me of me when I was topside. Never let the pain show, right? Never let ‘em get to you.” Maybe he imagined it, but it seemed as though her eyes hardened ever so slightly. She went back to staring at the ceiling.

Dean stood up and paced around to the other side, bracing himself with a hand on either side of her, just under her arms, which were strapped spread-eagle on the table’s wings. He leaned forward until his face hovered inches above hers. She had nowhere to go – this was a predatory move.

Yes, something definitely flickered in her stoic eyes. Dean crowed and rewarded himself with a tiny, sinister smile. “Got you,” he whispered in her ear, tickling the skin with his breath. Then he straightened back up and placed one hand on her shredded knee. “My guess is that souls about to break need to remember their lives.”

_Finally._ The soul let out the tiniest of squeaks, so quiet that Dean might not even have heard it if he hadn’t grown up hunting. His smile grew wider. “Bingo.”

Straightening up and moving back to his stool, he picked up a small paring knife and twirled it between his fingers as he sat down. “So, let’s play a game of Yes or No. I’ll guess something about you, and you just say “yes” if I’m right or “no” if I’m wrong. Shall we?”

No response. He hasn’t expected one. Light glanced off the knife’s blade and danced around on her exposed ribcage, highlighting different bloody areas for a few seconds before he flipped the blade around again and it jumped somewhere else. Interesting.

“So, if you were a person who never let people get to you, then that means you were probably insecure somewhere way deep down,” Dean said casually, watching her reaction. A muscle in her jaw jumped. “Which means,” he continued, “you probably had daddy issues. Or mommy issues. Maybe both.”

The girl’s fingers lurched as if she wanted to curl her hand into a fist, but of course she could not. A low moan escaped from her chapped, bloody lips. Dean’s face twisted up into another smile.

“And you probably didn’t get along with your siblings, either,” he said.

No reaction this time.

“Only child?”

She blinked.

Dean sat back a little. “You were lucky, man. Little brothers sucked ass sometimes. Always needed to be taken care of, protected, watched over – “

He stopped himself, digging a thumbnail into the palm of his left hand. _Don’t go there, Winchester._

Then he saw it: a single tear, rolling down from the corner of the woman’s eye and into her matted, blood-soaked hair. Dean tilted his head to get a better angle on the drop of water, making a soft noise of interest low in his throat. Something clicked in his brain.

“His name was Sam,” Dean whispered, staring hard at the girl’s face. She took a shuddery, gasping breath. “You know what that feels like, don’t you? Having to be someone’s caretaker all the time?”

She moaned again, louder this time. Jackpot.

“You do it because you don’t know any better, at first. Someone tells you, “Look over this person,” and you just do it because you’re supposed to. Eventually it becomes like your job – your only job. Only one that matters, anyway. But you keep doing it, because you love that person more than anyone else.” The girl was openly crying now. “But then you start putting them first, and they’re your whole world, and it’s more important that _they’re_ happy than for you to be, because you have to take care of them, right?”

Dean paused. The girl’s heart, which he could almost see under the bleeding, pulsing muscle, was speeding up. Blood was flowing more freely than it had before. She was panicking. Alastair was right; emotions did have a scent after all. Panic smelled like something burning, acrid and overpowering.

“But then something changes,” he murmured, looking down at the knife in his hands solemnly. “Something snaps inside you, and you forget who you are without that person. Like you can’t possibly live without them by your side.”

The girl let out a high, piercing wail and squeezed her eyes shut. For two entire minutes she did nothing but scream and scream, hardly even pausing for breath. Dean winced at the noise and stood up to distance himself from it.

She finally stopped, gasping for breath like a fish in a desert, but try as she might, she couldn’t get air into her lungs. Dean watched with a stony face, crossing his arms over his chest with the paring knife pointed at the ruined soul as though she might break free of her restraints and attack him. Finally she sucked a ragged breath of air in and opened her eyes.

They were solid black.

Dean and the brand-new demon locked one another in a staring contest for a long, silent moment. He could see himself fully in her onyx eyes now. His wings unfurled themselves instinctually – he hardly noticed the throb in the injured one due to the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Something carnal rose up in his chest at the sight of this demon. She was a beast – infantile, pathetic, but monstrous nonetheless.

She roared at him again, a curdling scream that definitely ripped her vocal chords to shreds. He was reminded absurdly of Frankenstein’s monster. Dean fanned his wings out as far as they would stretch and raised his arm, throwing the little knife straight into her stomach with a _squelch._

He knocked twice on the door while her screams echoed all over the walls. The door creaked open, but instead of the guard demon Dean had intended to send for Alastair, someone else entirely stepped into Dean’s chamber.

“Well done, Winchester,” Crowley said, sipping from a crystal chalice nonchalantly as he brushed past Dean to inspect the demon on his table, thrashing about wildly now. “I see you’ve learned how to crack skulls for good.” He smiled at Dean, who stood shell-shocked in the doorway. “That’s excellent.”


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley strolled around the small room casually, admiring the infant demon from all angles. She convulsed on the table, cracking the weak scabs that had formed around the stab wound in her stomach. Blood bubbled up to the surface and broke in midair, filling the room with a fresh scent of copper and salt. Her ribs still lay exposed and carved, but even as Dean and Crowley watched, they began to heal over and form new, thicker skin.

“Demonic skin,” Crowley said, waving at the healing wounds with two fingers. “It heals faster, grows back tougher. But you knew that already, didn’t you, Dean?”

Dean’s eyes flickered to meet Crowley’s for a brief second before he looked away, feeling naked and exposed. His hackles rose of their own accord even as he schooled his features into stony composure. Only the new demon, who grew stiller by the second, separated him from the King of Hell, and Dean would be damned (again) if that didn’t make him nervous.

Crowley allowed one heartbeat of silence before he continued in that same cool tone. “Of course you knew that. You’ve been cutting through that skin for much longer than the past eight years under Alastair’s wing. Yes, Winchester,” he added, picking up on the tiny flinch Dean couldn’t hold back. “I know about the hunting.” He took a sip from his goblet, making sure to show a flash of his darkly red stained teeth before swallowing and licking his lips clean. Dean didn’t move or speak.  “You can imagine, I’m sure, my delight at hearing of your arrival. A hunter such as yourself in my very own domain.”

Crowley paused again, taking stock. Dean clenched his teeth and ground them together, forcing his shoulders to stay relaxed and his hands open and loose at his sides.

“It’s quite rude, you know,” Crowley said, swishing the contents of his drink around, “to ignore a guest in your own… _home._ ” He said the words lightly, but Dean was no idiot. He loosened his jaw with some effort and managed to open his mouth.

“You know,” he said stiffly. His left wing throbbed and burned the way it had when the demon had first filleted it open. It twitched of its own accord.

Crowley caught the movement. The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile that Dean was almost positive had featured more than a few times in his nightmares – the ones he hadn’t had in almost four decades. “Why Dean,” he exclaimed, his voice oozing with something slippery and sweet. “Of course I know. You’re one of my boys now. What kind of father doesn’t know his children?”

Ice slipped down Dean’s throat and settled low in his stomach, curling through his veins and freezing him in place. The King circled the table where the demon was still strapped down, completely silent now, and moved to stand right in front of Dean. When he spoke next, Dean could feel the air move with every syllable.

“Take note, Dean Winchester,” he murmured. “I keep a very close eye on my sons.” Dean swallowed through a dry throat. Crowley backed off then and made for the door, tapping the iron once with his knuckles.

“Be seeing you,” he said cheerfully, and then he was gone.

* * *

   

Crowley hummed to himself as he exited Alastair’s quarters. He thought of finding Alastair himself to say hello – maybe break a finger or two, just for the hell of it – but the Torturer was nowhere to be found. Instead Crowley spread his huge, leathery black wings and took flight, winging his way easily up until he reached the Plains.

A particularly vicious war was waging on the flatlands; two elephantine monsters bellowed and dove at one another over and over again, mauling each other every time they met. One, an ancient-looking demon without any recognizably human features left, roared as the other bit its three-foot fangs into its wing and ripped it solidly from the joint. Dark blood burst from the wound like a geyser, spraying at least a dozen smaller demons nearby.

A horde of demons attacked the wounded one all at once and sent it screaming over the edge and down toward the Pit. The other crowed its victory, throwing its head back and whipping the wing around its head like a flag.

Crowley propelled himself up higher, settling on the Staircase and folding his wings primly behind his back before climbing upwards.

 

Castiel was in his bedchamber, sitting on the edge of his bed and polishing a sword carefully. Crowley entered with the slightest tap of knuckles against wood. The Prince looked up, met Crowley’s eyes and nodded curtly, and then looked back to the weapon. “Hello, Father,” he said stiffly.

“Cassie!” Crowley tried for thickly laid-on charm, even though Castiel was far too old to be fooled by such things anymore.

“The use of lewd nicknames. You’re upset about something.” Damn.

“You’ve been playing with Alastair’s boys again.”

Castiel heaved a world-weary sigh and raised his head. “Not boys. Just one of them.” He leveled his gaze at Crowley, unflinching and bored.

Crowley waved a hand. “Potato, potahtoe, darling. Have you at least been using protection?”

“ _Father_.”

Crowley snorted, then flipped his tone entirely. “Alastair isn’t the only one you’ve been visiting.Ellsworth sends his regards, by the way.”

Castiel’s composition flickered for the briefest of seconds. “It’s not as though I am forbidden to visit whomever I please. Including Ellsworth,” he said carefully, digging a little too intently into a nick on the sword’s blade.

Crowley changed tactics, flicking two fingers at the sword in his son’s hands and sending it spinning end over end toward its place on Castiel’s weaponry wall. Castiel watched it go impassively. Crowley took two careful steps forward, so that he hovered on the edge of threateningly close.

This grabbed Castiel’s full attention. He stood up and pulled his shoulders back slightly. A slick move, no doubt one he’d learned from Crowley himself, designed to be nearly imperceptible while still making oneself look undeniably larger. And it really was unfortunate how Castiel had grown – Crowley couldn’t deny the obvious height advantage his son held over the situation.

No matter.

“You know, of course, how crossroads deals work,” Crowley said, keeping his voice steady and polite. “Some poor, stupid bastard buries a box – bone of a black cat, graveyard dirt, yarrow, a mug shot – and they get what they want for ten years. After that, my dogs get a new chew toy.”

“I know all of that,” Castiel said.

“Of course you do. Been telling you that since before you could fly, haven’t I?” Crowley said. “But there was another part to the story. One you’ve perhaps… forgotten.”

“And that part would be?”

Crowley stepped backward a little and spread his arms wide, giving his son a smile so chock full of sugar he’d never taste the venom laced through it. “Hunters, m’boy. Surely you remember your bedtime stories.

“Hunters, as you recall, are humans who devote much of their time, or in some cases, their entire lives, to tracking down anyone and anything… like us. Anything supernatural. They kill us, and our brethren, and they do it largely in the interest of vengeance. Some big baddie kills someone they loved back in the day, and they swear on that person’s grave, and. Well. _Blah, blah, blah_. You know how it goes.”

Crowley paused, partly for dramatic effect and partly to gauge Castiel’s reaction. His face showed complete nonchalance, but the stiff way he held his spine betrayed him.

“But there are some,” he continued, “who hunt for much more than their own personal revenge. Quite rare, these hunters, but not unheard of. They spend a lot of their time moaning about always having to save the world.”

“Is there a point to all of this, or can I go back to cleaning my swords?” Castiel interrupted.

Crowley pursed his lips and scrutinized his son for a second. Yes, the majority of his body language screamed of boredom and disinterest, but it was too staged. His posture, though not as ramrod as a moment before, was still too forceful. He was on edge.

“My point, Castiel, is that the selfless ones are always the most dangerous. They’re the ones you _really_ need to watch for whenever you go topside, because they aren’t interested in anything but putting an end to you and saving more petty, blithering lives. They find your pattern, they track you down, and the next thing you know, you’ll be right back in here where you started. Or, if you’re particularly unlucky, you’ll find yourself lost in Purgatory.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Castiel asked, looking down his nose disdainfully at Crowley.

Crowley huffed. “Clearly, I should have made Ellsworth keep you in the library longer. Come on, Castiel. You know why I’m telling you this.”

Castiel paused and looked away, staring intently at the mural on the wall. His jaw clenched and unclenched, like he was attempting to chew something tough and unyielding. “You’re telling me this,” he said finally, speaking through his teeth, “because Winchester was a hunter.”

Crowley beamed, laying it on as thick as tar. “Atta boy. Knew you had a brain on you somewhere.” He dropped the façade then, adopting a quieter tone of voice. “Tread lightly, Castiel. Winchester was no ordinary hunter. You make one mistake – just one – and he’ll kill you without thinking twice about it.”

* * *

 

Dean stared at his table, watching silently as the carrier demons unstrapped the new one – _the monster he made_ – and carried her off. She thrashed and clawed and screamed, but the older demons were stronger than her.

“You did very well today, m’boy,” Alastair crooned, nodding his approval at the demons as they left Dean’s little room. He practically beamed at Dean as he entered; images of Sam as a little kid, beaming at Dean on Christmas morning, flashed through his mind; he forced them down with a swallow and squared his shoulders again.

 “Am I finished for the day?” he asked.

Alastair actually laughed. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Dean.” _Of course not_. “You see, our armies are… dwindling. Someone upstairs has been very, very naughty this year.” Alastair was close enough now that Dean could feel the air move when he spoke. His breath smelled, like most things down here did, like rotting corpses mixed with something sickly-sweet and flowery. It used to make Dean’s gorge rise; now he wouldn’t be surprised to find his own breath matching the scent.

“What does that have to do with me?” he grunted.

Alastair smiled again. “Deanie. You’ve just learned to create new brothers and sisters for yourself, and our guys up top are hurting for bodies. I know your brother was always the smart one, but come along now. Two and two makes…”

Oh. 

* * *

 

Castiel sat outside Dean’s chamber, cloaked in invisibility, and listened for hours. Demons kept coming and going, carrying one tormented soul after another into the room and taking fresh demons out. He followed the carriers once, tracking them as they left Dean’s room with another brand new demon and dumped them into the Pit and then made their way to the Rack to collect another soul.

They were different, Castiel found. Some of them went quietly, like they weren’t even aware where they were going anymore. Others sobbed and pleaded and begged. One of them – a woman with a strong British accent and long, dark hair – screamed to be taken to “anyone else – anyone – just not Winchester. Oh, God, not Winchester.”

One of the carriers had just laughed and slapped the woman into silence. “What, sweetheart, does he have a bone to pick with you?” She let out another sob, eyes wild.

Castiel almost didn’t want to listen to that one when she finally arrived to Dean’s table. But the sickening snap and crunch of bone followed by the wet squish of organs being crushed held him captive.

It didn’t take very long for Dean to finish that one. He had laughed. 

* * *

  

Eventually, after what must have been a dozen old souls/new demons in a row, Alastair showed up. Castiel shrank back into a corner, despite the fact that he was invisible in the Torturer’s presence. An idea formed at the last second as Alastair pulled the door open; he sprang forward on the balls of his feet and followed Alastair inside, holding his breath until the iron door swung shut and sealed the three of them in the chamber.

Dean stood facing the door, behind the table, with his head bowed. His hands were bright red, as were his arms all the way up to the biceps. He tail swayed back and forth methodically, keeping the man upright. His wing looked only marginally better than it had when Castiel had sent him back here – something had torn the wound open again and it hadn’t set properly. Thin, black veins crisscrossed out from the wound, spreading over the entire wing and making it look vulnerable and weak, like Castiel could tear it off entirely by just stroking it. He held a simple knife in his hand, spinning it between his index fingers with his thumbs. The point dug into one finger slightly, making a bead of blood pool there. The knife flashed every time the blade faced Castiel.

None of this escaped Alastair’s steady, sweeping gaze as he entered the room. Dean didn’t look up though, just kept watching the knife spin round and round slowly, like a pig on a spit above an open fire.

For several seconds, there was silence in the chamber. Alastair considered Dean, Dean looked at nothing but the knife, and Castiel watched it all from the edge of the room, hardly daring to breathe in the quiet.

“Long day, Winchester?” Alastair finally said. His voice was soft and sent shudders racing down Castiel’s spine. Dean didn’t say anything.

Alastair took two steps forward, placing his hands on the table on the side opposite Dean and leaning close, like a lover. “Don’t tell me you didn’t have the slightest bit of fun today,” he murmured.

A muscle near Dean’s eye twitched. “Bela Talbot was a surprise.”

“A treat for you,” Alastair replied. “You two were friendly, were you not?” The tiniest huff of breath puffed out from between Dean’s lips; it hardly passed as a snort, but perhaps in his actual life the reaction would have been stronger. Either way, it was clearly the response Alastair was looking for. “You’re welcome.”

Castiel wondered what that was supposed to mean. He shifted his wings, folded them closer to his body subtly.

“Get some rest, Winchester,” Alastair cooed. “Tomorrow will be a busy day for us both. I’ll see you bright and early.”

He pushed himself away from the table and made for the door again. Castiel hesitated for a half second before making up his mind. He maneuvered himself to the floor carefully, taking advantage of the creak and scrape of the door to settle against the wall.

The door thudded shut. Castiel watched Dean carefully. He continued spinning the knife between his fingers, everything about his body closed off and hostile.

* * *

 

Dean really hadn’t expected to see Bela fucking Talbot down here. He knew the hellhounds must have gotten to her – probably not long before they’d come for him, actually – but the thought had never crossed his mind. It was as though his Hell and Bela’s Hell shouldn’t have been the same place.

She’d been… less than thrilled to see him. He’d been surprised. She spat out a lot of crap about the “mighty Dean Winchester has well and truly fallen, hasn’t he?” at first. It got old, fast. He cut her tongue out, reaching all the way to the back of her throat to do so. And then, for good measure, he shoved it someplace tongues really weren’t meant to go.

Huh. Forty years in here, and he still had a squeamish side. Weird. Still, the sick justice of it all – finally getting to do all the crap he talked about back on Earth – had made him laugh.

Bela hadn’t taken very long to deal with after that. She was close, very close to demonhood by the time they brought her to him. He just pushed her over the edge. She was already sprouting wings by the time the carriers took her away from him.

Dean figured out fast after that, as he tore into another (how many was that today? Eleven? Twelve?) body and twisted the very nature of its atoms into something sick and evil, that sick revenge didn’t make him feel good for long.

So he sat in his chamber after Alastair left, actually sat, with his legs pulled up and hugged tight to his chest and his good wing wrapped around them. The gimpy wing lay uselessly on the floor, stinging and aching and nearly making him cry out every time he tried to move it.

Torturing souls was one thing. As sick as it made Dean the very first time, he’d grown to love it. He was _good_ at it. Spending a lifetime stitching people together with army needles and whisky gave him a good knowledge of the human body and how it worked – where to poke and where to _absolutely avoid cutting_. Reversing that knowledge, he’d found, was a lot like riding a bike after years without doing it. It was just knowledge in reverse – taking apart what he’d spent so long putting back together.

And now it was almost as thrilling as hunting had been once. Dean remembered Earth; he remembered hunting, driving for hours on end with his snoring brother in the front seat and fighting by his side to kill the Monster of the Week. It made him feel alive once, made electricity sing in his veins. He remembered all of that, but distantly, the way he remembered a particularly vivid dream. His only reality anymore was this little room and all his toys. Blood, and pain, and torment: that was his forte now. He was good at it, and he _liked_ it.

But taking those souls and changingthem, making them fundamentally _different_ and _wrong…_ that was a whole other thing. Maybe he just needed to give it time. Maybe he needed to learn to be good at it, to love it like he had to learn Alastair’s first practice.

Or maybe there was still some part of him that clung to his humanity - to all the things his father had taught him his whole life. Maybe he still believed somewhere way down deep that demons were the Enemy and had to be destroyed.

Alastair’s words clung to him. _Someone upstairs has been very, very naughty_. Someone was still fighting to send demons back to their hellhole. There was a spark, deep down in Dean’s core and steadfastly ignored, a tiny little flame that whispered of possibility.

Hope was a luxury he didn’t have, and wouldn’t ever have again. He knew that. But dammit if he didn’t want that someone to be Sam.

“I know I said not to, Sammy,” he whispered, barely making noise above the sound of his own breath, “but please. Help me, man.”

* * *

  

Castiel slipped out of Dean’s chamber as soon as Alastair arrived the next morning with his carriers in tow. An idea gnawed at the back of his mind, incessant and annoying, but growing larger by the moment.

He spread his wings and beelined for Crowley’s chambers.

* * *

 

Crowley was putting the hellhounds’ leashes on their collars, carefully dancing around their sharp teeth as he did so. It was Collection Day for some poor bastard, and they knew it. They growled and salivated and barked at the portal from Hell to Earth, eager to get going already.

Hence the leashes. Can’t actually just let his dogs eat whomever they wanted – not that he didn’t fantasize about that from time to time.

He was clipping the last leash onto the biggest dog in the pack, smoothing the matted, bloody fur between its ears, when Castiel burst into the room. “Father!”

“Castiel,” Crowley said mildly, taking in his son’s heaving chest and the fine sheen of sweat on his flight feathers. “You’re up early.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Castiel said, pausing to take a large gulp of air. “And I think you’re right.”

“Often am, Cassie, you’ll have to be more specific.”

“I don’t know enough about hunters. I don’t know enough about _humans_.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. The hounds tugged on their leashes, pulling him a step to the side before he managed to plant his feet and hold them back from the portal. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Castiel said, drawing himself up to his full height and tucking his wings back respectfully, “that I want to be a Crossroads Demon. I want to learn.”

Well. This was shaping up to be quite the day already. 


End file.
